


Rush

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go to the back alley, as if the 30 extra metres could provide some safety. Or some false sense of. Written in January 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush

"Have you waited this long?"

 

She swirls around; not really startled. (she doesn´t do startled) Her pulse doesn´t quicken. (there is something in his voice, a kind of familiarity, of solid softness, that calms her) She looks up at him, quiet, collected.

 

"Here?" Roy insists.

 

He looks tired. (with the tiredness not only of the lack of sleep, but of the constant heart attack, the tension, the breathing underwater) So tired that Hawkeye forgets about her own fatigue, about the heavy weight pulling her legs, the soreness, the cold.

 

"For me?" he finally adds, with a small, brief smile. So brief Hawkeye is sure she has missed; but there´s an afterglow, like the image on photographic paper, not developed yet. He looks down and kicks some dust into the air, and even the effort of that smile seems too much of a burden now.

 

There is silence.

 

There is always silence. (_I could count the many ways I love you just by your silences_, Roy thinks and doesn´t say, never says, because there is this silence, the many silences in their story, this history of words not spoken, not written, letters with no return address).

 

Hawkeye doesn´t know where to start. Everything that´s happening to them, around them, and away from them.

 

She nods.

 

His eyes light up with sadness and pride. Hope is the swiftest of the murderers.

 

"What´s going to happen?" the words spilled out of her mouth, like water when you are laughing. She doesn´t mean to sound so anxious. (or scared)

 

Roy takes her by the elbow.

 

"Not here."

 

They go to the back alley, as if the 30 extra metres could provide some safety. Or some false sense of.

 

"What´s going to happen?" she insists.

 

(he doesn´t let go of her arm)

 

Roy shakes his head. He is tired, he is scared, but he is not angry. Bradley does not arise anger in him; just worry and pity. For the first time in his life Roy Mustang doesn´t want to think of the future. For the first time the future scares him -if it lead far from here, this moment; that´s why he doesn´t let go of Hawkeye´s arm, feeling the sharpness of bone meeting bone in the elbow, a sharpness that tastes like reality, like brutal sunlight.

 

Hawkeye is so small and strong; Roy moves her hands up to her shoulders, taking a step with her, she backwards against the wall, he forward, against her.

 

He tries a tantalizing smile; but that´s all the bravery left in him.

 

"I don´t know."

 

He presses his forehead below the curve of her collarbone.

 

Because Hawkeye is the only one to whom he´ll ever say _I don´t know_, because she can feel his fear like it´s her own skin burning, with acid not with fire. (there are too many wrong associations between Roy and fire, and more than one right; she doesn´t want to go down with the topic, he wants to find words by herself, for him, _if only I could paint you as you really are_, she thinks, with the smell of his hair on her mouth) Because she will always know how to read their language of silence over silence, unwritten words over unwritten words, a mute palimpsest.

 

"I don´t know," he repeats, softer, softer.

 

A car starts in a street nearby. They shiver, but they don´t break the contact.

 

(he breathes against the buttons trailing up her neck; she buries her nose in his hair, it smells of old paper, of the flowers she places on the office table each Thursday, of cheap soap and loneliness; he holds her by the shoulders so tight it hurts, so tight that it´s going to leave bruises, one more unwritten confession; she closes her eyes and presses herself against the wall, feeling cold, damp stone that´s going to leave stains in her coat, one more unwritten bow)

 

"How are we going to save our necks this time?" Hawkeye asks, trembling but with tender familiarity. This time. Again. We´ve been already here. There is fear in her voice (it´s strange, Roy thinks, fear in her, it sounds like a chord somebody else could make a tune with, but not Hawkeye), but there is no doubt. It has always been a _we both go down_ together situation for her; from the beginning, from the days of sand and blood.

 

"I don´t know," he replies again, bringing his lips almost, but not quite, to the curve of her jaw.

 

He can almost taste the warmth of her skin; she the roughness of his lips, slowly parting with each word.

 

"I… don´t… know…"

 

There is a bitter taste in his mouth, very suddenly. The adrenaline rush; he could be dead. Bradley could have chosen to end this here, now. For the first time there is no future.

 

Just this: adrenaline, tiredness, silence, Hawkeye.

 

"What are we going to do?"

 

Her words get out scattered, broken, like her breath. He presses his chest against her breasts and each breath she draws is painful, dry, glorious.

 

"Go," Roy says, serious, but with his lips on her chin.

 

They hear steps on the street by their side, but they don´t turn. Whoever it was didn´t pay attention, either.

 

"Leave," and his lips are over the corner of her mouth.

 

Her arms slide under his and she can count his vertebrae just like she can count the number of stones of the wall behind, grinding, sinking into her.

 

"Hide," and his fingers are on her neck, the thumb resting in the hollow, surrounded by bone and muscle and hot skin.

 

Hawkeye rubs her knee against his thigh.

 

"Escape," he finishes, forcing her to part her lips, one finger on her chin, his mouth over hers.

 

Roy can taste his own adrenaline in her mouth.

 

_whatarewegoingtodowhatarewegoingtodowhatarewegoingtodo… whatarewedoing_

 

What are we doing?

 

…Is all Hawkeye can think, hysterically but pushing it to the furthest end of her mind; instead she clings to Roy, to his shoulders, to his coat, his mouth, his kiss, the bitter taste underneath, the feeling of his unshaven chin burning (again like acid, not like fire) her skin.

 

"What are we doing?" escapes from her when they are both breathing in and out and against each other´s teeth.

 

For a moment Roy freezes and Hawkeye is sure he will stop it. This.

 

For a moment Hawkeye freezes and Roy is sure, horribly sure she is going to put an end to this. To them.

 

But there´s only silence.

 

Their silence.

 

Their common, exclusive language.

 

Roy catches her elbow.

 

"Not here," he says.

 

Hawkeye nods, ready to follow.


End file.
